Leverage
by Scribere Est Agere
Summary: She looks at him and everything becomes inevitable. Written for the Porn Battle XI.


**Title:** Leverage  
**Author:** Scribere Est Agere  
**Pairing:** Goren/Eames  
**Spoilers:** After _Purgatory_  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer:** These characters do not belong to me.

**Written for the** Porn Battle XI  
**Prompt Words:** guilt, slip, tight squeeze, breaking, interrogation, smoke, cold, sweat and tears, tremble, whisper, breathless, hurt

Thanks, as always, to **csinut214**, for the ongoing encouragement, and the title.

**Summary:** She looks at him and everything becomes inevitable.

xx

It's the coldest night of the year, he thinks. It must be. There is no night colder than tonight. He stomps his feet, wonders for the fifth time where Eames is, why it's taking her so goddamn long to get here.

And he wonders, for the millionth time, what she does on her nights off.

There are a lot of people here: cops and the media and Rodgers and the only one he wants to be here _is not here_.

Then justlikethat she is and his mood shifts from black to grey because when he sees what she's _wearing_—

"What do we have?" she says, her mouth close to his ear, making him hard justlikethat.

She's wearing a dress. A black dress with black nylons (Tights? Pantyhose? What the fuck are they called anyway?) and heels.

Not Fuck Me Heels, but still.

"Where were _you_?" he says, staring at the hem of her dress, which is knee length, which means he's also staring at her knees. Respectable, he decides, but still. It's a dress. Eames doesn't _do_ dresses.

"Out." She sniffs, slaps her arms against her sides. She's also wearing a black coat with a bright red scarf and gloves and that's all she's going to give him, _Out_ and it pisses him off, supremely. Okay, things have not been great between them since he came back from suspension, and no, they haven't been talking…at all, outside of work, but the fact that she feels she can just waltz into a crime scene dressed like…like _that_ (fucking hot) and not feel she owes him any kind of explanation…pisses him off. Supremely.

"You had a date." He says it flatly, not a question and she responds in the same manner.

"Yes."

"Sorry it got interrupted." _Liar_.

"Me, too." She slaps her arms again. "So. What do we have?"

He explains the details but the words feel disconnected from his mouth, like he's listening to himself speak instead of actually speaking. Alex nods appropriately and says the right things and talks to the right people and when they realize there's nothing else to be done tonight and he sees she's about to walk away, he panics.

"Let's get a drink." He says it suddenly, impulsively, but as the words emerge from his mouth he realizes they've been there all along, waiting.

"A what?" She looks right at him

"Well…you can't…you can't go home looking…like _that_."

"Like what?" She looks down at herself and her cheeks, he notices, are even redder than before. It pleases him.

"Or…is someone waiting for you?"

"What?"

"You know. Your…_date_." He clenches his jaw. "Did you blow him off or just…you know…leave him hanging?"

She tilts her head.

"Bobby?"

"What."

"Stop being an ass, all right?"

He shrugs and shuffles his feet, and exhales heavily and watches her from beneath his half-closed eyes and thinks about the beast stretching and yawning in his belly, the beast that hates the thought of Eames dressing like that for anyone (other than _him_), of Eames putting on makeup or tights/pantyhose for anyone (other than _him_), of Eames out on a date with _anyone_ (other than…him?), but underneath all of _that_ is his own shit, the sense of betrayal, of shame, and the gnawing guilt that he feels any of those things at all.

He suddenly hates himself.

"C'mon. You know you could use one." He wants her to come. He doesn't want to go home. He doesn't want to let her out of his sight. His mood is sinking again, blackening. He knows drinking will only make it worse, all of it, but he doesn't care. He doesn't _care_. She looks so small and so young and so...

_Fucking hot._

She takes a deep breath.

"Bobby—"

"Please. Eames."

Another breath. Jesus, she just wants to go _home_ but here's Bobby in front of her with this strange expression on his face and her heart suddenly crawling up her throat.

She shrugs and shakes her head. "All right."

They end up walking, because Bobby says he "knows a place" that isn't far. It's cold. January and black sky and not a breath of wind, but still so cold. It burns the inside of her nose when she breathes. She watches Bobby out of the corner of her eye as they walk — he has slowed his pace, as he always does, to match hers — head down, hands deep in his pockets. But then he's fumbling, pulling out a cigarette, lighting one.

"Bobby—" she says, dismayed.

He blows out a huge cloud of smoke, almost obscuring his face from view. But then he grins a little, crookedly, and her eyes fill with tears.

"What?" he says, but she only shakes her head, confused at her reaction. Funny fucking day, all round. Can't even begin to explain it. And now _Bobby_—

They start walking again. The smell of smoke fills her nose, along with the bitter cold, but it doesn't bother her as much as usual.

Then she slips on a patch of ice and he grabs her arm before she even realizes what has happened. His hand is wrapped around her elbow; she isn't going anywhere. She catches her breath, looks up at him.

"You okay?" he says and his voice sounds very far away.

"Yeah."

They stand that way for a moment, silent and still as the night air. She reaches up and takes the cigarette from between his lips, puts it between her own, never once breaking eye contact. She takes a drag, exhales, hands it back to him.

He thinks his heart might stop.

Strange, fucking day.

They walk, reluctantly.

"Here. We're here."

The bar is dark and busy and noisy but they find a table at the back, by a frosty window.

Alex is sweating and feels suffocated. She shoulders off her coat. The dress isn't low-cut enough to be, well, _slutty_, but it's definitely more revealing than anything he's ever seen her wear. The beast unfurls and growls louder, claws at the inside of his chest.

_Where was she? Who was she with?_

The waiter appears.

"Uh…a whiskey…and she'll have…bourbon." He looks at her. "Right?"

She tilts her head the way she does and her hair slides across her cheek the way it does.

"What are you doing?"

"Being a…_gentleman_."

She nods, looks away, bites her lip. "Not sure that's the word for it," she says.

Bobby, to her surprise, laughs loud, which makes her more nervous than anything else that's happened so far tonight. Their drinks come and Alex gulps half of hers, relishing the familiar burn. It feels good, this giving in, this letting go. She closes her eyes. When she opens them, he's staring right at her.

"What?"

"Where were you tonight?"

Now she laughs. _This again_. "Out."

"Yeah. Yeah…I heard that the first time."

She finishes her drink and Bobby signals for another without taking his eyes off her face.

"I don't think I want to talk about this." Her heart pounds. What is she _doing_? Why doesn't she just tell him?

"Why?"

"Why do you care?"

He finishes his drink. "I'm curious."

She snorts, but then she thinks, Of course he is. He's always fucking curious, but she's not used to his keen mind being turned on her and she doesn't know how to respond. And something about the way he's looking at her makes her stomach hurt, her pulse race, makes the alcohol move more swiftly through her veins. The tips of her breasts harden and she draws in a startled breath before she realizes.

Bobby's not smiling anymore. He reaches across the small table and takes her hand. He squeezes her fingers, hard.

"You're developing an interesting habit of evading my questions," he says. His eyes are very dark.

"You're developing an annoying habit of being a pain in the ass." She smirks. "More than usual, even."

With her free hand she picks up her glass, takes a long drink.

"I'm not a fucking suspect, Bobby."

His fingers tighten, almost convulsively. She will not let him see her flinch. She will _not_. She can actually _hear_ him breathing now. The sound is hypnotic.

Tighter. Tighter.

"Bobby…" she whispers. Fuck it. Fuck everything. "You're…hurting me."

Immediately he lets go like he's been burned and he looks down. For a moment it all sits in his throat and his chest. He grabs his glass and drains it, signals for another. Alex blinks back hot tears. He grins, like before, when he was smoking, but this grin is cold and deathly. It scares her.

She rubs her fingers.

What the _fuck_ is going on?

Finally: "I get…I get tired…of being alone." He speaks to the scarred tabletop.

Pause.

"I know."

Pause.

"Do you?"

Pause.

"…what?"

Pause.

"Do you get tired…?

Pause.

"Of being alone?"

Pause.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"What's going on with you?"

He can only shake his head because opening his mouth would be a huge mistake right now. He can see her rubbing her fingers and the guilt only builds until it threatens to smother him.

"What…what was it about him? What did you _see_ in him?"

"…who?"

_Did you sleep with him?_

_No…but I would have._

He waves a hand, careless.

"Who…ever you were with…tonight."

"Bobby…fuck." She sighs then, a wet, wobbly sigh and she is, he realizes, very close to breaking, very close to sobbing and then what? What will he do then, knowing that he's brought it on? "Not here, okay? Please…not here."

"Where, then?" This isn't him, he realizes, but then, this isn't them, either. "Where? Tell me."

Where?

She looks at him, really looks at him. She wonders if he's drunk. Probably. But, so is she, a little, because she's eaten next to nothing all day and her nerves are raw and ragged and Bobby is—

Bobby _is_.

He takes her hand again, but this time it's different. This time it's infinitely gentle and…fucking erotic. He rubs his thumb over the skin of her palm over and over, then down to the fine skin of her wrist, feeling the racing beat there, then back up, up, up. He won't look at her, so she watches the top of his head, the graying hair.

She feels the pulse race again, but this time it's between her legs and it's so surprising and so sudden she closes her eyes so he can't see how much she wants him.

"Eames. Alex."

Ah, god. Her name. He said her name. She sighs.

She looks at him and everything becomes inevitable.

xx

They stumble into the alley. The icy air hits him like a brick wall, much like the one he's suddenly leaning against. She's standing on her tiptoes and she's kissing him with her mouth and her lips and her tongue and—

"Here—"

"How—"

"Yes—"

"_Here_—"

"Yesfuckyes—"

He reverses their positions and lifts her up and for the first time that night he's glad she's wearing a dress, infinitely glad. He pushes her against the wall hard and holds her there and a fucking army could march past and he just wouldn't fucking care, he just needs to fuck _her_—

It's so cold, but they're sweating, too; he can feel the slickness on her skin as he fumbles with the tops of her tights/pantyhose/nylons and the underwear/panties beneath. The sweat is on him and it's on her as she fumbles with his pants, his underwear, _the skin of his hips_, and he slides into her and she's hanging onto him and making noises like he's never heard her make before (of course except in his dreams). He can't go slow and he can't move fast enough. He shifts his feet, looking for leverage, and she wraps her legs around him best she can, and it's good enough. It's fucking good enough.

There's a moment, just before he pushes inside her, when she thinks: He might just break me. He might break me this time, and it has nothing to do with sex, the actual, physical act, and it has everything to do with her heart and him and them and how long it's been and the fact that she wouldn't stop this, even if she wanted to now.

So she hangs onto him. She's never had sex like this before, never with Bobby, of course (though she's thought of it so many fucking times it's almost a joke a masturbatory joke), but her back's against the wall now, and her tights are down and Bobby…Bobby's inside her and moving like he doesn't want to stop or can't stop and it's not smooth, it's not perfect, it's frantic and a race but it's them and the sensation is both so familiar and alien at the same time she can only lay her head down on his shoulder and _hang on_.

Her shoulders bang against the bricks with his thrusts, but it doesn't hurt because there are layers of winter clothes. She smells smoke, but can't tell if it's coming from him or her, and she hears low moans, and again, can't distinguish the source, if it matters at all. They're fucking, she thinks, finally fucking, but even that word doesn't fully encompass what's taking place between them, because there's love too, she knows. There's love, so it's more than just fucking, but it's okay, because she knows he knows, too.

Her orgasm, when it rips through her, catches her by surprise and she opens her mouth and gets a mouthful of wool for her efforts. Her entire body trembles, from her hair to her toes, inside and out, and if she doesn't hold on tight enough, she just might shatter into a thousand pieces.

He can smell it, smell the whiskey and bourbon, the sex, smell himself, smell _her_, and he grunts and comes hard, pressing in as far as he can, feeling her clench around him, tighten and tremble, and he's never been happier or more terrified in his life. The night explodes and they explode with it.

When he comes, she can tell, because he bucks and moans, low in his throat, and the tears come again, and the protectiveness, she'd forgotten about that, about fucking someone she actually loved, shit, and she's suddenly hot and very cold as the sweat dries on her skin, the mingled sweat and tears, an odd combination. He holds her for a long moment, until his arms start to tremble, and then he sets her down and she pulls up her tights, he his pants. The only sound in the world is their heavy breathing, and distant bar sounds. She can still feel him, feel him dripping from between her legs and that sensation sets off a whole new set of sensations that makes her bite her lip hard and twist her hands into the front of his coat.

He grabs her then and pulls her to him in a tight squeeze that hurts but in a good way. She can feel his lips in her hair. He's kissing the top of her head, over and over, still breathing hard. She slides her hands into the front of his unbuttoned coat, around his chest, squeezes back so hard he gasps.

"Alex…" he whispers. "You're hurting me." And she laughs loud and squeezes him even tighter, just because.

_Strangest_ fucking day.

"Hey! What are you two doing back there?"

It's the bar owner and they gasp and look at one another before running off like two wayward teenagers and Alex feels like giggling as Bobby pulls her along, their hands entwined. But she doesn't, because Alex doesn't _do_ giggles.

But she also doesn't _do_ getting fucked against alley walls by her partner, so, there's that, too.

When they're almost home he stops suddenly and looks at her and she knows. She _knows_.

"I was with my sister," she says. "My sister. We went out to dinner. That's it. She…feels…" She stops and there go the fucking tears again. "She feels sorry for me."

He leans down and kisses her, soft and slow and wet and she puts her hands on the sides of his face and kisses him back and can feel his lips curl under hers.

He holds her hand and grins a little, crookedly, the rest of the way home.

xx

_fin_


End file.
